It’s Sunday night and I am soaking in the bathtub, relaxing and scrolling through Facebook. Within a span of no more than a few minutes I am laughing, scowling, cussing, giggling, crying, and ripping out eyebrow hairs just to keep myself sane. All the emotions are unbearably strong yet last no longer than the time it takes to scroll to the next post on the list–unless, of course, I deign to comment on one, allowing myself to be swept up in the drama.
Infinity scrolling–surely it will be the doom of mankind.
As I type my furious response to the same sort of philosophical bitching from the same exact drama llama whose flames I ducked just yesterday, my is heart pounding and my soul is on fire with the righteous indignation (how DARE she speak poorly of the latest Avenger’s movie?). I am ready to slam my fist through the wall, my blood pressure is shooting upwards like a house with ten million balloons attached, and I have no doubt that my face is a brilliant shade of Iron Man red. Then just as I am going to press the button to send, it hits me:
I am sitting butt naked in a bathtub, using emoticons and internet shorthand created by twelve year olds to bitch out a person using a picture of Ru Paul as their avatar. WTF? When did I become this utterly ridiculous? 
Everybody must be ROTFL because this is LOL nuts.
That is when I make the decision: I am going to say farewell to social media. Not in a drama queen, not really going to leave, “please ask me what’s wrong and beg me to stay so that I can whine about my sorry life as a white middle class American and feel better about the cellulite creeping up my oversized thighs” sort of way. Nor am I planning to delete everything and become an electronic hermit. After all, Facebook is an important connection in this world. Without it I would never have found the veterinarian who is working with me to get my parrot into Honduras. But I’m not going to let it control my life anymore. I’m moving to Central America to be free of this constantly plugged in nonsense, but there’s no reason I can’t start now.
Before I can change my mind, I make a short announcement on Facebook, which immediately receives comments, of course. To keep myself from slipping as the notifications pour in, I download a program for my Mac called SelfControl. This program allows you to block websites from yourself for an amount of time between 15 minutes and 24 hours. Even if you restart your computer or delete the program, you will be unable to view these sites. When you think about it, it’s kind of sad we even need a program like this. After all, it’s not aimed at kids. It’s meant to keep adult webaholics under control. The fact that it bears the Jolly Roger symbol as an icon seems strangely appropriate considering that the island I am moving to is the sister island to Pigeon Cay, where many pirates made their home.
My decision has an immediate impact on me, as I get an incredible urge in my gut to post on Facebook that I just downloaded a program called SelfControl that allows you to block websites from yourself. Unfortunately I have just locked myself out on the computer for 24 hours and deleted the app from my phone.
I climb out of the bathtub and call my father to tell him the news, since I can’t announce it to the world, then finally put on a pair of pants and sit down on my bed, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do now. Nothing comes to mind, and my fingers itch to type out just how bored I am. Finally, I dig out the harmonica my parents bought me as a souvenir from Galveston Beach back in 1995 and spend thirty minutes attempting to play the Star Spangled Banner. Eventually I admit defeat and go to bed, silently yearning to shout my failure to the world.
Twelve hours pass without me sticking a needle in my arm and pumping in a half a dozen cat memes or a lofty philosophical quote photoshopped onto an image of Mount Everest. Strangely enough, no one drops dead, and I actually arrive at work the next morning humming Piano Man. The weight of needing to describe my every action and thoughts to an electronic ball of wobbly wobbly timey wimey stuff has been lifted from my shoulders, and I feel a sense of freedom for the first time since my account was created in 2004.
Farewell, Dearest Facebook. Hope I don’t see you again soon.
Not Your Momma's Dream 